Willing
by sodakey
Summary: Speculative Sam POV during the cabin confrontation in Devil's Trap.


Have not ditched "In Reverse." This is just a small foray into the world of Devil's Trap to get me in the mindset for the premier, which I get to be in town for-like, with a TV and stuff, where there is electricity to power it, and… a fridge that keeps snacks cold for when I want to eat them while I watch the pretty boys in peril. Amazing, this thing you call… civilization.

Disclaimer: Not mine. No money.

Speculative Sam POV during the cabin confrontation in Devil's Trap. Probably been done before…yeah yeah yeah… ©2006sodakey

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_**Willing**_

* * *

Sam's not aware of it, in the conscious way he should be, but he's a mess—bruised exhaustion and hope, hunger and heavy weary overwhelming emotion, the shaky realization that somehow he's become the last Winchester standing. His mind has become a chaotic, rapid mess of changing thought and memory, torn between his brother and his father—the strongest and most screwed up people he knows—both bloody, on the floor.

_Hey Sam? Know that guy I shot?_

Dean had said—back when they were trying to figure out that whole demon-plane-crash thing—that demons didn't want anything. Just death and destruction for its own sake.

_There was a person in there…_

Sam doesn't know why he's remembering that now, but he is—feels the memory, subtle and dark black, leak out from the back of his mind.

He doesn't know what it means.

He doesn't know if it means anything.

Only knows it's a weird time for the memory to wield itself.

_Killin' that guy—killin' Meg—I didn't hesitate._

Weird, because he's pointing a weapon at the thing that killed his mother, at the thing that killed _Jess_, at the thing that moments ago turned his older brother's voice into a purely broken plea while painting his chest with blood. He's pointing the weapon at _that_ Demon—Dad's desperate imperative telling him to pull the trigger.

_I didn't even flinch._

And Sam wants to. Feels something coldly familiar twist in his stomach even as his hands steady on the gun.

He knows he won't miss.

_I'mean… for you or Dad, the things I'm willing to do or kill..._

He's not thinking about whether or not he'll be able to live with himself, knowing he'd shot—_killed_—his own father.

…_it's just ah…_

That's all there, _underneath_, but just… underneath.

And though he's hearing his _dad's_ voice, he's seeing _The_ Demon, and knows—if he were in his father's place—he'd want the trigger pulled too.

…_it scares me sometimes._

His chest feels heavy, tight, and tense.

The gun stays steady.

He feels nothing else.

He's sure of it. Even though his lip quivers and his throat tightens and trembles.

And why the hell is Dean afraid of flying anyway? It doesn't make sense—with all the things they face everyday—why _flying_?

Sam thinks maybe it has something to do with control. Thinks maybe if Dean were the pilot and could knowledgably act if something went wrong, he wouldn't fear it anymore. Which is ridiculous, he thinks suddenly. Because sometimes, giving up control is so much easier, so devoid of responsibility.

"You _shoot_ me. You shoot me in the heart, son."

He's been trained for years to heed the voice of his father, to follow it with respect and immediacy. _Follow orders or people get hurt. Follow orders or people die._ It's ingrained in him to do what his father tells him. And despite all the times he's argued against it, he wants nothing more right now than to be the good soldier and follow through.

Because he's _not_ pointing this weapon at his _father_. He's pointing THE weapon at THE Demon and can end it if he just follows orders.

All his lectures. All his morals. He hadn't been willing to allow sacrificing—_murdering_—Max for the greater good but, his own father?

"Sammy!"

_It's going after families,_ his father had said. And, like his father, he knows this Demon _has to_ die.

This needs to end.

Be over.

It killed _Mom_ and _Jess_ and nearly eviscerated _Dean_.

Mom and Jess and _Dean_ and _it's going after families_.

It's not _Dad_—it's the _Demon. _

Dad's holding onto it so they can end it. So Sam can end it. For all of _them_, Sam can end it—keep countless people from the pain. And wouldn't that _victory_ make this act worth whatever comes after?

He can do this. He should do this. Dad wants him to. And_ it's all we've ever cared about_.

Dean's broken voice tells him differently—both past and present. Sam hears him say, "Don't you do it," and, _Demons don't want anything… just death and destruction for its own sake._ The gun trembles in his grip, just a little—steadiness slipping as he wonders abruptly if _that_ is the point. If by taking Dean's mother, the Demon's turned Sam into the thing that will take his father.

If he pulls the trigger, he will never be able to look Dean in the eye again. He'll never be able to look at him at all, never be able to say anything, be able to stand in the same room, state, or even country, without feeling the pulse of betrayal.

If he shoots, he damns them all. And that doesn't feel like victory. The Demon's maybe, but not theirs.

Not his.

Sam knows he would hear it laughing, ever after, and he can't do it.

Because no matter what else he does in life, he has to be able to look Dean in the eye.

Yet, his aim doesn't change.

The gun doesn't waver.

_Mom _and _Jess_ and _Dean_.

And suddenly, it's too late—evil pouring out his father's mouth, escaping the cabin through the cracks, making Sam's chest heave with the loss of it, nerves raw and snapping, scratchy, achy with the feeling of being so _close_.

Too late—the final decision made for him.

He shifts the gun, no longer pointed—aimed now at nothing.

Behind him, Dean's head thuds to the cabin floor. In front of him Dad's does the same.

He blinks, hard, heaves air into his chest, looks down at his father, feeling keenly a messy confusion of pain, frustration, apathy, and _fear_ because... the things he's willing to do to kill the demon…

…_it just ah…_

…_it scares him sometimes_.

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End

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Thank geminigrl11 for the perfect title. I had nothing.


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